


Watercolor Weeping Willow

by Tigh



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dream Sequence, Poetic, Prose Poem, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 05:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8434036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigh/pseuds/Tigh
Summary: Dream sequence; sense of direction metaphor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kedreeva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/gifts).



There is a weeping willow I see at night. Under my eyelids, the day shines golden afternoon: pale green leaves line along drifting stalks, dusting around the medicine of the full season.

In my boat, wooden and worn smooth, I glide towards the dangling foliage. At the prow, an invisible but half-shaped distortion of light refracts a slight bend, pushing aside the swaying branches as my vessel enters. They open in a suggested path, a sense of right trajectory.

I am going somewhere.

There is an eroded bank holding the roots of the massive tree just at the edge of the deep cool pond. The sky is child-splashed watercolor, streaks of matte blue where the edge of the brush left a thicker concentration. A gradient of yellow-green laps against the pear-shaped bottom of my craft.

Each night so far I have only approached the tree, never reaching inside, where my sun-kissed back might cool; where the willow presses out the pieces at the edge of the frame; where the fresh openness of the pond blends away to a greener scent. I enjoy the approach. But I am going somewhere.

The branches brush closer, a sister's head of wind-blown hair, flecks of light dancing through to play on the water surface. I tarry in the hollow middle for a span of breaths, hoping not to cycle back to replay the approach. I want to follow the parting way and arrive where I am going. But the distortion of light is gone. The way out is through branches that do not lift magnificently, but hang limply and brush against my body as I continue. It is darker, sharp instead of lush. It sags. The sense of trajectory is missing and I am cutting a dull swath.

Where is the sun on my back, or the willow as a whole? The colors splotch and dilute, unset blends of brackish grey wiping along my arms, thick paintbrushes. My boat slows as the gluing wetness grabs and peels off. My progress is inches, imperceptible. I wonder, had I entered from the other end, would my eyes have perceived a weeping willow? Where will I exit? Still, the boat moves through the dragging weight and I know at least:

I am going somewhere.


End file.
